Fine Print
by Bibliotecaria.D
Summary: Observers don't get involved, but sometimes a situation demands involvement. That doesn't mean they won't read the fine print before signing on the dotted line.
1. Chapter 1

_Observers don't get involved, but sometimes a situation demands involvement. That doesn't mean they won't read the fine print before signing on the dotted line._

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**Title: **Fine Print

**Warning: **Modeling/dollplay? Nonsexual BDSM. Aspects of coercion via rank.

**Rating: ** PG

**Continuity: **G1, the _Buy_ series.

**Characters: **Reflector, Megatron, Swindle

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **Various, but mostly a need for more nonsexual BDSM.

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_"some petplay involving Megatron/slowly taming_" - . ?thread=14401280#t14401280

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They watch. They have always watched. His body is one of brutal power, his profile chiseled instead of elegant, but his coloration is a statement. He wears silver in defiance. It is a symbol: chrome shining out as a dare. The humans have a history of warriors who wear their hair long as sign of their battle prowess, and the silver armor is a similar target and brag in one.

On a whim, they edit a picture of him and pass it off among the troops to get Skywarp in trouble. The image is an instant hit for the sheer ridiculousness. Not many mechs get the point behind the edit. Long hanks of hair looks ridiculous flowing from his helm, but it's a peculiar fit. The length is a dare to grab, just as the blinding armor is a beacon on the battlefield. It's pride and sheer combat ability, and they watch him because they cannot fight him, don't want to fight him, but they do so love to see his extremes.

They love to catch every aspect of him.

He has a miner's body, a poet's expressive hands, and a warrior's armor. The combination has overtones of immense power, but there are greater powerhouses. What screams from the chrome and pride is a kind of dignity that rides the rough rasp of his voice, the changeable nature of his face, and becomes charisma mechs will and have died for. They will kill for Megatron, but the fact that they will die for him speaks of their leader's violence and sheer presence. Decepticons value their own lives above all others.

Reflector values their life most of all, so they watch. They want to touch, but the silver is death's lure. Touch it and die.

When death looks this good, unabashed staring is a decent compromise.

"Turn. Tilt your chin up. No, too far. Yes, like that. That's beautiful. You're gorgeous. Yeah, like that. Turn and - perfect. That's perfect."

It feels weird ordering their commander about, but the humans are so easy to fool. The little organics respond subconsciously to cues like facial expression and body language, simple enough to exploit, and Reflector _is_ a specialist. Optimus Prime has a face mask and a Second-in-Command who talks and walks with the strict economy of movement humankind associates with unthinking, dead machines. Megatron, on the other hand, can be cast in the right light to be seen as ruggedly handsome and a benevolent ruler, and Starscream is both beautiful and passionate. Their expressiveness is gloriously visual, at times. Reflector can work with that.

The Autobots rely on human media to spread their images, but the Decepticons intend to take action instead of allowing for passive means. Reflector will turn the humans' feeble minds head-over-heels using subconscious cues. First impressions are vital, and humans trust their eyes.

"There's a smudge on your shoulder; use the rag to wipe it off. Show us that shine. Good. Wait! Hold that pose. Gooooood, yeah. Like that. Drop the rag but keep your hand there. Oh, that's beautiful. That's touchable. Oh yeah. Make them want you."

This is the second time Megatron has sat for him, and Reflector is more confident this time. The studio is where they have the most control, and they slid automatically into orders. They didn't mean to. There is not intentional disrespect. They were highly conscious of what they said and did the first session, murmuring suggestions in undertones meant to slide under any hint of insubordination. It'd worked, because they'd survived.

But they backslid into habit in the middle of that session, after Starscream left. Those two have a working chemistry together that the camera only had to tweak in order to capture, but by himself, Megatron doesn't quite get the cues right. He needs an audience.

Or orders. Reflector was fighting with a stubborn light shade when Megatron dropped out of pose again. Distracted by the work, impatience at their uncooperative model got through in the form of, "Stand straight and look directly into the lens. Stay that way."

They were polite, but they were clipped and giving an order in no uncertain terms. They didn't even realize what they'd done until two poses on, still swearing their breath at the shade but far happier with the images they were getting. The photographer patter came out naturally, praising their model. Positive feedback worked so much better with live models. Let a model know what worked with the camera, and that model's talent could bloom.

Realization hit and they stopped, suddenly realizing what had just come from their mouths. The orders were bad enough, but the praise and flood of outright flirting dropped Reflector's collective jaws. Megatron gave them a strange look out of the corner of his optic. Strange because it wasn't a glare, and strange because he didn't otherwise move a micron. He just patiently waited for them to tell him to move.

He actually asked if he was doing something wrong.

Stranger yet, he kept hesitating when they tried to go back to respectful silence. He didn't know what looked right in the camera's lens, and Reflector wasn't giving him feedback anymore.

Aware that it could mean death, they gave him an order. Then another. Then they started the pattern, awkward but easing toward natural, and he responded.

He responded beautifully to the camera. As a model, he was positively exquisite in how responsive he was. And they always reacted to what the camera loved, because they are a camera and cannot stop seeing the world through its lens.

Megatron followed their commands without a hint of resistance, and it lit something in their spark that they dared not name. By the end of the first session, they were purring praise on their model, and - they wanted to believe - he was soaking it up. He might have enjoyed it.

"That. Whoa! That's going to bring them running. Give us some hip action and - too far, too far, turn back. Chin down, optics at us. Smile a bit."

Turns out that death takes orders well.

Second session, same as the first, Starscream's louder and a little bit worse. Yet as soon as the noisy glitch leaves, Megatron gives them an expectant look.

Watching is easy. Directing is a pleasure, and they slide into their favorite role hesitating but hopeful. His optics gleam when they tell him where to stand, and Reflector smiles back. The patter is a subroutine on their vocalizer while their lens click, the sensual impact of light on their interior surfaces a caress that translates to data. The images are glorious. The many aspects of Megatron are caught, and Reflector is a master at visuals. The humans won't know what hits them.

They keep the second session rolling longer than they have to, and a lot of the images aren't useable near the end. At least, not useable for the current project. They might raise morale around the ship if Reflector lets them leak out among the Decepticons, however. One of Megatron's many aspects is 'sexy,' and he knows it. If he didn't know it before, he knows now. Reflector thinks they should stop the patter, but the urge is too strong. Their instinct is to praise, to tell their model how spot-on that look, that pose, that _everything_ is, what that look's doing to the camera, how that angle will enflame libidos like energon on an open flame.

Megatron is death, and Reflector admits to themselves that toward the end, there, they were flirting with death.

He leaves as inexpressive as anything, but Reflector wonders if he's flattered by the flow of words. It's the only reason they can think of that he was so cooperative.

It doesn't occur to them to think that it's the orders Megatron enjoys. Not even during the third, totally unnecessary session where Megatron just shows up and demands a 'personal' session.

"Don't turn like that. No. Look at us. Drop your chin. Turn your head! Oh, for Primus' - hold on, we're coming down there."

He looks amused when they hit the pose for him, but he still screws it up. The amusement becomes disbelief when they wrestle one of the light stands over to climb and bodily correct him, comparatively tiny hands on the shining silver of his jaw. His mouth turns down, but it's not disapproval. An odd confusion fills his face. They see it as they snatch their hands back, afraid they'd gone too far, but it's directed inward. He doesn't seem to understand something about what they've done.

"Continue," he says when they begin to apologize.

They hesitate and look at each other. "…yes, m lord," one of them says after a moment, words that have been left at the door the whole time this session.

That's not what he wants to hear. They know because a sweep of his arm catches the light stand and throws them across the room in a violent sprawl. He storms from the studio. Those expressive hands clench at his sides, and they don't move until his footsteps fade off through the ship.

Reflector quietly packs their equipment and relocates their studio, trading Scavenger two Van Gogh paintings and a pencil for one of his storage rooms. They don't know what's going on, but death is most dangerous when angered. Megatron's rage is unpredictable. It's best that they stay out of his sight for a while.

Staying out of sight doesn't help when the mech they're hiding from can simply summon them.

"My lord," they say as they bow, wary.

The throne room echoes, empty but for their commander, and the lighting is all wrong. The corners are pits of darkness, the ceiling a black nothing above them. Megatron is a shadow. Dull pewter glints, picking out a vague dark shape against the gloom. His armor catches some of the light from overhead, but the lights are few and far between. Most of them are turned off, for some reason. The remaining few angle toward Reflector instead of the throne, and they frown at that. This is poor lighting to emphasize the central focus of the room, and they don't approve.

Spotlights barely provide any ambient light. Except for stray beams reflected from the floor, darkness dominates. They can feel him study them. Red optics in the black sweep them from helms to feet, and they shift uncomfortably.

"I wish another session," he says from the darkness, and they shrug. Far be it from them to deny him.

"As you command, Lord Megatron. Where and when should we prepare? Is there a specific plan for the pictures?"

He studies them further. The silence strains, and they shift some more. The focus of the light is them, not him, and it reverses their expectations. He is their leader. What are they, under these lights?

"Here," he says at last, and they blink. "Here and now."

That's unexpected, and they're not sure how he wants them to respond. Obedience is best. "As…you command, m'lord. Our equipment will take a moment to - "

"No. No equipment."

This time, they have no idea what to say. No equipment? How can they do a session without equipment? They combine into a camera, but in actuality, they work with cameras, lights, shades, and background screens. They're fairly ineffective at turning and shooting themselves in altmode.

"Lord Megatron, we…" Red optics stare, and Reflector looks at themselves. None of them know what to do but obey. "…will do our best. Ah." They look up at the inadequate lights, those spotlights which direct light nowhere useful. Light on them, not on their subject. They are the ones being scrutinized while their model stays in shadow. It's a strange set-up. "Is there a theme?" they guess, grasping at any information they can. Mystery? Drama? What can they do with this?

The red optics ponder them. "Consider it an artistic exercise."

That is the exact opposite of helpful. "Of course, m'lord," they say. Decepticons don't show uncertainty. Even confused and uncertain, they will show confidence.

One of them lights his thrusters and starts toward the ceiling, intent on redirecting the lights, but a deep rumble of disapproval drops their component back to the floor. They give each other perplexed looks and peer through the darkness at their commander, hoping for instruction. A hint, at the very least.

"The light is wrong. We need to fix the angle," they say, voices dropping out of sync as nerves rattle their systems.

Silver glitters in scattered handfuls of light as the dark bulk of their lord rises. "I will move as necessary," he tells them.

But he remains standing there.

Waiting for orders.

Decepticons don't show weakness, but more unacceptable yet is to ask for help. Increasingly anxious at his silence, they respectfully direct him into the light. At any moment, he could take offense. They could misinterpret the way he watches them, or how he doesn't ask for their directions, only waits for them to take the initiative. They're afraid of what they could do wrong, and yet. Yet.

The shoot _is_ surprisingly artistic. Reflector is the master in this domain, awkward as it is to drop and shoot at the same time, transforming before they hit the ground. Their heads grow muzzy with the influx of light and data flashing across their separating bodies. The images are dark, the light illuminating only parts and pieces of Megatron's body. Red pits of optics glare out from the shadows of his helm: red, black, and dazzling silver in the light from above. A presence just at the edge of visible, somehow sensed but barely seen in the picture. The black outline of his shadow from below, menacing and huge. Shadows parted by a hand reaching into the white light, a gesture both yearning and demanding.

Reflector finds themselves enjoying the impromptu shoot, grueling as it is on their minds and bodies. The dizzier they get, the less they leash their mouths. The patter pours out in a stream of corrections, orders, and praise. The occasional bark of a quick change brightens Megatron's optics, but they're combining and falling, separating and leaping up, combining and falling. They can't concentrate. Death is turning in the light in front of them, and the rush of pleasure from directing, from _control_, pushes their limits.

"Move over there, to that one." They point before turning to brace their hands on their middle component's shoulders. Their vents labor.

Megatron strides past them, a dark figure in a darker room. When they turn, he is kneeling, and his optics burn on them.

They stare back. "Further back," they whisper on automatic, mouths running without input from their stunned minds, and they can hear his powerplant thrum through the floor. "Turn your face into the light. Hands down."

He drops his hands further than they meant, further than they would risk ordering, and Reflector hears their own fans spin on as black hands touch the floor. Red optics darken, and Megatron draws a long, slow breath through his vents. If he was anyone else, if those eloquent hands weren't pressed to the floor, it would be a confession of uncertainty tinged with belligerent confusion. Megatron isn't sure what he's doing, and they're not sure what he wants. He hasn't spoken since they started ordering him around. That would be admitting something that Decepticons never do.

He doesn't speak now. Death stares Reflector down, silent and waiting.

Their legs shake, but not enough to stop them. His demands are unspoken but heard nonetheless, and they obey. Their feet take them across the room in short, erratic strides, skittish and ready to flee but drawn nonetheless. One hand ventures up, greatly daring, but quickly drops to their sides.

Megatron ducks his head. He chases the aborted gesture. It's a small motion that needs completion. They've worked with this model before, and they can read some of his cues.

Small hands rise to brush fingers tentatively over chrome finish, and his face turns from the light. White light reflects hard off the helm bent before them, and shadows cover the face beneath. He is statue-still. His metal hums with energy, restless motion under their hands. He is war and death captured in a handsome form. Reflector exhales shakily and strokes a work of art. Their hands are careful, careful, careful times three, but gaining confidence.

Slow and gentle, they pet him. He is contained power. He is their leader. He is, "Beautiful," they tell him, and they can feel the minute shudder of his powerplant against the palms of their hands. He pushes slightly into their hands, just enough to be felt. A question of body language from a model looking for direction, and the patter comes naturally to them. This, they know how to handle. "Just like that," they croon. "A little further. Like that. Good. Very good."

They talk to and about him, and he soaks in their attention. They give orders, and he obeys them.

This time, the session ends early, but not taking pictures doesn't mean they're done. They praise him when he does what they want, and scold him when he doesn't. Fear swells in their chests and subsides a minute later, only to rise and ebb again. It's a rollercoaster of fear for their lives that dips on the power of his scowl, soars in disbelief at his obedience. It is a fragile power that sets them on fire.

He is no less excited by their control. He runs hot under their hands as they touch him, and they touch him more than they have to, radiating just as much heat. To have this, to have him at their beck and call, willing - no, more than willing, _eager_ \- to earn the attention lavished on him…his is one of the most beautiful things they have ever seen, but then again, he always has been. This is simply a new aspect to observe, and go beyond observation. They are involved.

Slowly, in the dark, Reflector tames death.

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	2. Pt 2

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_EbonyKain: "New headcanon for Decepticons showing affection. They don't tell each other they like each other… they just slowly power down or shutter their optics at those they trust_."

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He watches them.

He watches everyone, the suspicious gaze of a predator among its deadly spawn. Reflector is unnerved by the intense focus when they are the only ones for Megatron to turn that gaze on, but they're not offended. They move slowly, broadcasting their purpose with every exaggerated move.

"Turn," they murmur, and he shuffles about on his knees. He's much taller than their individual components, but he kneels because they ordered him to, not because he is taller. They coaxed him down in pretty turns of phrases and their fingers stroking under his chin, positioning his face for them to have a perfect view. Now he turns on command for another component's hand to cup the side of his face, a thumb brushing over the high angled arch of a silver cheek, and deep red optics flick side-to-side to keep them all in sight.

"Good," they tell him. "Chin up. Tip your face into the light. Yes, like that. Perfect. Beautiful. Just beautiful. Look at the shine of your armor. Amazing. You could stun armies. You have stunned armies. Very good." One of them brings out a polishing cloth to work over his helm, and his vents sigh as the great head bends obediently into another set of hands. His jaw is chiseled, worked cold outside of a forge, and their fingers linger on old, worn marks that could be from tools or combat. They croon over the marks, praising the strength of the metal and the way light hits the angles of his face.

He's not in their laps, but he kneels in the space formed by their legs. Aloof and pampered, admired from every side as they change the light to turn silver armor hematite, he stays where they put him. They handle him with purpose but also pleasure, petting as much as they position him, and his systems purr. The attention soaks in, and he glows in response. He's a cared-for machine of war, a weapon of mass destruction painstakingly maintained and decorated, primped and preened until he's a monument to leashed violence. He is death, and he deigns to be theirs.

Megatron turns his head slightly to see what they're bringing out next. It's not a watchful look, however, warily prepared for trouble. It's simple curiosity. Red optics dim slowly in acknowledgment before he turns his face back into the hand stroking it.

Reflector pauses for half a second, startled.

He breathes calmly, fans barely on.

After a while, they resume work. They are smiling.

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	3. Pt 3

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_Different desires - taming to hand_

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Swindle gives them what they can't get elsewhere: their personal desires. It's not cheating. It's intensely personal, but it's business, too. They contract Swindle to give them what Reflector wants for themselves. His own involvement in the sessions is one of compliant behavior and availability, not his actual self. They don't care about him. For a price, he gives them what they crave, and they pay him for it because whatever it is that brings Megatron to them, it has little to do with their own needs.

Taming the warlord is fascinating in the same way delicately laying blackmail on the table is, but waiting with closed vents for an explosion that hasn't yet come isn't the same as mutual play. Sometimes, they think Megatron knows nothing beyond whatever nagging wish finally surfaced. It brought the tyrant to them, but they serve him. He's using them for his own needs. Pets generally do, but Reflector doesn't think Megatron knows about reciprocation. He likely doesn't know or care about owners searching for a pet who's into the same play.

Swindle, they think, was his tipping point. Discretion is all well and good, but with such a small group of Decepticons stuck on Earth, Swindle's service advertisements mean everyone can see what's for sale. The amount of mechs who leapt on the opportunity might have shocked more ignorant people, but Reflector knows why Swindle immediately became popular. It's hard to find someone who will submit. Decepticons generally swing toward owning. Those who like some kink in their play will admit to the dominant side of things long before hinting they want to be a toy mech.

Reflector admires Swindle for making a business opportunity out of what too many mechs see as an exploitable weakness. Being a pet is _dangerous_. Submissives aren't disposable, aren't automatically masochists, aren't automatically _anything_, but too many Decepticons won't grant them the respect necessary to recognize what they are.

It's a shame. Reflector is fascinated by the contrast of a functional dominant and submissive. The level of communication and respect between two or more mechs involved in powerplay creates a dynamic Reflector adores. The bargaining process itself is on par with the internal politics of the Decepticon ranks, but far more intimate. The hostility, among Decepticons, can be along the same level.

The fascinating part, for Reflector, is how a negotiated balance isn't usually visible. Predicting who can do what and who allows it can't be seen at first glance. The challenge of _making_ it visible excites them. What can't be seen by the naked optic has to be brought out into the open by situation or setting, a story spelled out in the subjects' interaction, and Reflector finds it a more artistic endeavor than most of their wartime work.

They want to capture Swindle and all his buyers, some day. The different dynamics between toymech and clients beg to be photographed. They're not sure exactly what all of Swindle's clients demand in sessions, but the public sessions are enough to make them consider the other owners for a series. There seems to be a theme running through Swindle's return customers. Thundercracker and Astrotrain, even Blitzwing, hire the merchant for the pleasure they get from caring for him, in their individual ways. It's a common theme, but not one Reflector tires of framing in pictures.

Submissives require care from their dominants, and pets even more so. If the dominants don't give the care that's demanded, well, Megatron is the best example they have ever seen of how submission doesn't equal weakness. A dominant who doesn't respect Megatron will live just long enough to regret it.

Swindle's an example of submission in another direction. Megatron plays to specific kinks, although Reflector hasn't quite figured out what the kinks are. Incompatible owners gingerly feeling out what even Megatron isn't sure he wants out of them has nothing to do with what Reflector wants at all. Most of the time, a submissive is the center of attention, but a compromise for what the dominant wants is at least negotiated for if they're not a solid match of interests. Swindle, on the other hand, is a made pet. While the sessions he sells are still about him, they are tailored to whatever his clients want. The submissive becomes the dominant's ideal, no compromises.

There were pets for hire before the war, but Swindle's one of a kind, now. It's not surprising that he's in such high demand. He makes himself into whatever pet his buyers want, and the only kink Reflector's ever picked up off him is money lust. Pay him, and he'll be an empty vessel for an owner. He has boundaries and needs, but they're not related to the petplay he hires out for.

Swindle's selfish. It's to be expected. He's a Decepticon. Megatron is the epitome of that. It's a trial because Reflector is equally selfish. Multiply that by every Decepticon - probably every Autobot - out there, and Reflector wouldn't be surprised if there was a single successfully matched pet/owner pair still out there. One reason why Reflector finds powerplay dynamics to be so interesting to observe and catch on film is their rarity.

The only reason Megatron settles for them is because Reflector doesn't dare disappoint his leader. Survival trumps selfishness.

Also, Megatron is beautiful. He is strong. Reflector has long admired that, and being permitted to touch him the way they want sends their fans racing. Handling priceless art holds the same allure. The act of taking control is a risk, the power of knowing they could abuse what they held is a thrill, and touching something forbidden gives them a high. They would stroke and praise him for no other reason other than the way he looks on film afterward. It's what he wants, but they do get something from it, even if it's not quite what they wish they could have.

The evidence is turned over to him afterward, the digital and the physical, because it's for his benefit. It's for his pleasure, whatever this affair is, and he takes from them what they do their best to give.

What they keep is the memory of the pictures they took. That can't be erased. They remember. They savor the memories for their own reasons. On his terms, but they enjoy it nonetheless. They always watched him, and they will not give up freely given dominion over him simply because their personal, deeper desires aren't met. There are alternate means to get those.

Swindle serves to fulfill their cravings these days. He's convenient, and pliant as they test his limits. Their fetishes are mild, but they've known hiremechs to bolt at the smallest hint of discomfort. Swindle doesn't care as long as they agree to his contract. Spectro finds or makes the frills and laces, fascinated as ever by the foreign, the exotic, layered on familiar metal. Viewfinder contents himself with Swindle's expressive hands. Spyglass found something on Earth they'd never thought was an interest before it smacked them in the lens: rubber. Tires, clothing, and hands. Those are what Reflector enjoys. Those are what Megatron isn't giving them, but that's okay. That's just fine.

Earth days stretch time out impossibly long, somehow longer than the entire war has felt, and Reflector will take what they can get before reality comes crashing onto the small planet, ending this strange arrangement. They will gentle the twitching, wary harbinger of death and destruction who wants to kneel to them but isn't quite sure how. They will train him. They will show him how to submit to their hands, their words, their optics. He'll work out what he wants from them. He isn't the first pet they've guided.

The sessions aren't for them, not the way they'd want if this were an ideal relationship and both parties were getting what they wanted from each other, but still. Still, there is something here for them. Far be it from them to deny Megatron his needs. They will provide, as best they're able.

Then the first anonymous gift is given to Swindle, and Reflector wonders just who the gift is really for. They wonder if their desires aren't the only ones being hidden during the sessions they never speak of outside of the rooms Megatron summons them to.

Megatron rarely speaks. He takes orders. The warlord bends to their will and presses into their hands, but he doesn't often speak. If he wants something more than they're providing, they doubt he would outright tell them, and they're practical enough to be afraid of doing anything without him initiating it. Everything they've figured out so far has been done by cautious experiment and happenstance. They didn't connect his submission to Swindle's play, and they can't ask, won't demand.

What they can do is…introduce an idea. Just an idea.

"Let us take care of you," they croon in rough chorus when they start to ease him to his knees. He always, always must be coaxed down. It's a decision on his part, not something anyone can force, and he will bend his knees only when he wishes. Surrender is a conscious choice. It is a sweet ritual of taking control from him.

They do their best to soothe the caution in his optics. This is the most dangerous time. He never makes it easy to judge if he's subdued or impatient as they talk through the small script they've cobbled together to make this a routine. Routine is important. Slightly different words, said in the same rhythm and the same tone, give him a focus to settle into the right mindset. They gather up his power a strand at a time, taking it away as he releases it. A blank expression replaces haughty dignity, the micro-plates around his optics tightening up as they approach the border where Reflector delicately steps across the line from respectful subordinate Decepticon to master of their lord.

It's almost the flip of a switch, that second, like the moment when a model goes from a normal mech to a character in front of the camera. Mechanisms groan softly in the silver tyrant's hip as he shifts his weight to one leg and bends the other. Slow and grave, he lowers himself to the floor.

"Beautiful," they say in their chorus, and their optics are frankly appreciative. They run their gaze over him: a mighty leader balanced on one knee. Death kneels to them. Optimus Prime can't humble him this way. Starscream can only dream of what he gives them, voluntarily.

They reach out but stop, three hands hesitating back from familiarity. "You are," one of them says, "magnificent," the next continues, "this way," the last finishes. His optics dim, soaking in the heady admiration, and they give him more words to take in. Magnificent, beautiful, shining, proud, powerful, unyielding, and strong. He is all that and more, but their words aren't empty flattery. They narrate what they see, honesty twisted into persuasion, and he's lulled by the hypnotic sway of their patter.

His leading foot scrapes against the floor as he slowly shifts his weight, drawing it back, drawing it under, until he balances on both knees. The sway as he settles pushes him into their hands. They don't reach further and he doesn't actively press toward them. He naturally subsides into their hold. They, as a responsible dominant should, catch him. They support him, easing him down to sit back on his heels.

Now all of him is within their reach, and they take advantage of that. They pose him. They touch him, gentle but firm, as photographers of art handling a sculpture. They take pictures. Their hands direct him as much as the words they pour over him in a nonstop stream of feedback, praise, and scolding. They tell him what they see and want to see, and he follows their orders without question or rebellion.

They introduce a prop carefully, with no fanfare. It's a bell on a line hanging from a stick, like a fishing lure. Moving the stick dances the bell in merry jingles, fluttering the curled ribbons Spectro couldn't resist adding. When Spyglass flicks the stick, the bell flies through the air across the peripheral of Megatron's vision, and red optics jerk to the right. He seems startled by what he sees. It's something more appropriate for a game with Swindle, a petmech for rent, not for their commander, leader, and tyrant. It's a toy similar to what Swindle apparently found pinned to his door a couple weeks ago, an anonymous gift that may be wishful thinking.

They're going to find out.

Surprise melts back into the blank mask. They don't know what he's thinking. Do they presume too much? Is this disrespect? Viewfinder and Spectro ease apart, standing to either side of the kneeling mech. They can't stop him if he lashes out at their component, but they can stay out of his way and pick up the pieces any are left.

Spyglass twitches the stick. The bell jingles, rolling across the floor this time.

One large black hand lifts off a knee, but it pauses in midair. Tense, they wait.

Megatron curls the fingers of his hand, drawing his hand back toward his knee. It takes them almost too long to figure out it was supposed to be a pawing gesture. Megatron pawed at the toy.

"Good," they say through the shock of being uninjured. They guessed right! "Just like that." The small motion repeats, perhaps more forcefully, and Spectro drags the bell right in front of Megatron's knees. Red optics scrutinize their component before studying the bell. A clumsy patting gesture is made at the ribbons as they drag by on the floor, and they pile on the positive reinforcement. "Just like that. We're playing cute this time. Toy with it. Relax." He has to know he's doing what they want, or he'll falter. He has to hear their approval, relax into the orders, and know it's the right thing to do. Instant gratification is some playing away, no further. "Widen your optics. Blink. Let your lips part a little, like that, just a bit further. Perfect. Good, good. Come on, work with it. Always so serious. Let's try something more fun."

They smile as he bats at the toy this time. Dignity is difficult to let go, but he releases so quickly. They take it as he surrenders it, and they show their interest on their faces, push it into their voices. Yes, he's being good. He's doing what they want. Well done; good job; keep going.

It's clear he's eager, if awkward. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to act. He wants to _try_, however, and they think he might be imitating the few times Swindle played toymech in his presence. They, in turn, play their own part.

The first time one of them dares laugh at a clumsy, strangely adorable lunge after the lure, he freezes. "Don't stop," they command, but it's halfway to a plea. "Keep moving. Roll over? Try bigger gestures. Move more. This is such a different look for you." It is. They don't mean that in a bad way. Next time, they'll bring some of their equipment and turn it into a session. Perhaps, just maybe, he'll allow them to elaborate on the idea. Spectro would love to make a collar. Viewfinder could use the excuse of handling a pet's 'paws' to get their hands on Megatron's.

They know, as he chases the toy in embarrassed spurts of movement, that the rusty-edged joy in his play will have to be handled gingerly. It will take time to introduce him to more. Today will be a trial on its own. They will have to gentle him back out of this headspace, back into a submissive instead of a pet, and from there, they'll have to respectfully step back into their roles of Decepticon and Decepticon leader. It'll be hard to do, and they won't really _get _anything from it, not like they get from Swindle. It's not their thing. They're not into petplay.

There's potential. They can recognize that and hope for more, but they won't press Megatron. It's up to him what they do, and that's fine. Swindle satisfies their needs. They don't need more than they already have.

They have wants as well. Megatron explores and experiments in how to give them control over him, and they take it. They want it.

Reflector rather thinks they could get into that.

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	4. Pt 4

**Title: **Fine Print

**Warning: **Modeling/dollplay? Nonsexual BDSM. Aspects of coercion via rank.

**Rating: ** PG

**Continuity: **G1, the _Buy_ series.

**Characters: **Reflector, Megatron

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **Various, but mostly a need for more nonsexual BDSM.

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**Part 4: "Height difference"**

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He's beautiful. Magnificent. A towering example of what a Decepticon should look and act like. They adore his image for that, every shot they take of him on the battlefield angled upward to maximize the power he exudes. It's political as much as admiration. Propaganda can only go so far. Reality has to meet it halfway, or the tweaks fall through, exposed as lies. Megatron is the reality behind their images, and his presence pushes the propaganda further than mere altered shots. Sheer power shoulders out of the pictures.

The charisma he's famous for doesn't need an angle. Even the raw images Reflector handles before processing hit near to the spark. They hold a primal fierceness, the goriest pictures made glorious as notorious violence mingles with personality to become magnetic instead of repulsive. For Decepticons, those captured moments of heated combat are enough to catch fans. Reflector doesn't release those images polished for collection or public use, but they do show the raw files upon request, projected up onto the wall in the common rooms. Dozens of slides flicker bright in the dark, and an audience of avidly glowing optics surround them.

What fills those rooms during those showings would frighten the Autobots, but Autobots don't understand what makes Megatron exorbitantly attractive. Perhaps if they did, they'd turn traitor more often.

A leader must have power, but he also has to be relatable. Too intimidating, and he becomes an untouchable idol to be worshiped at a distance, feared and perhaps loved, but loyalty will be divided by mythology over reality. Reflector angles shots from below for power, and they shoot pictures at optic level for a connection. Circuit-level lust, fear, and pride affect the viewers depending on how Reflector frames the shot.

For personal preference, they enjoy taking pictures from above him. There's a sense of unawareness to the shots, of vulnerability that Megatron doesn't usually betray in their pictures of him. The power lies in the optics of the beholder, and it pleases them. It's a pleasure to watch, to set up, to direct, and a thrumming fulfillment to their programming to shoot. They take pictures knowing they are the only viewers of these candid shots, and the satisfaction from holding such images on their harddrives fills their spark. It's like the power-rush from collecting blackmail, although they know they'll never dare use it.

Nor do they want to. When one tames Death, one doesn't tempt fate by playing games. Crossing Megatron never ends well.

Besides, trust is a greater treasure than any single moment captured on film. Today they have Megatron on his back at their feet, and he is calm, a docile weapon of mass destruction under their hands. There isn't a picture they could take that would encapsulate the feeling filling their chests. His massive powerplant rumbles the floor and their feet, and his helm rolls to the side, relaxed, as they fasten the collar around his neck. They take dozens of pictures, hundreds, but what pulses a delicious burn through their interface equipment is the experience itself.

The collar is a clumsy thing. Spectro cobbled it together from cloth stolen during a midnight raid on a craft store. He went by himself, hastily stuffing bolts of random fabric into a bag while counting down toward the arrival of the police. He left right before they arrived. Human attacks could be shrugged off, but the attention inevitably brought by police was unwanted. A nighttime hit-and-run gave news crews nothing to put on TV but speculation and pictures of the damage.

Reflector is a media specialist. They know how public interest works. No one pays attention if there are no live reports or armed police on the scene. The aftermath of a relatively harmless attack on a craft store isn't exciting. The raid barely caused a hitch in local news. Major media outlets didn't even pick it up.

The bolts of fabric became a collar through trial and error: melted, glued, stapled, and knotted together in a crumpled, scrunched band that couldn't look any worse if they'd tried. The faint smell of burnt nylon hangs around it. Ragged edges of tulle and chiffon stick out in translucent, delicate contrast to burlap and polar fleece. A wide section of velvet lies across the front of Megatron's throat, the soft fuzz a rich plush contrast to an equally large patchwork of smooth satin. Or rather, it would have been smooth but for where Spectro accidentally glued his finger and caused a giant run.

The whole thing is an ugly, amateur effort. Reflector is ashamed and proud of it in equal measures.

The floor thrums, burring up through their feet as Megatron's powerplant positively purrs approval. The collar ties shut, laces knotted into a messy bow, a frilly nightmare against his metal bulk. His optics dim as their hands stroke the cloth, and he tips his chin up. The cables and tubing in his neck bare to their touch. His shoulders dig into the floor to arch him into the caress of their small hands, and they smile at his eagerness. It's entirely unfeigned.

The tattered mess they put on him enhances his pleasure. It's the act of collaring that he reacts to so strongly, they think. It's the fact that they obviously made the thing themselves, no one else involved in whatever it is they're doing. It's proof they respect of his privacy, and its existence provides tangible evidence of their own involvement.

Spectro leans over him, one knee resting his negligible weight on the broad silver chest, and he pets. His fingers fondle the collar as much as the sensitive spots Megatron twists to open to him, but if Megatron notices, he at least doesn't seem to mind. Viewfinder and Spyglass bend down, more cloth in hand, to do small tasks. Little things, the kind of maintenance mechs don't leave to the Constructicons. Who wants to have Hook wiping their optics clean or oiling facial joints? Their hands are smaller, anyway, more suited to getting into the crannies of optic shutters and mesh grating over audios.

Their words pour down like hot oil over Megatron, praise and direction, and he soaks it up. "Turn, there. Open wide? That's good, look at those optics. Clean you up, polish you down. Give a scowl, like that, open up the crease there a bit more, ah, nice. Look up. Don't flinch away! No, no, shh, it's okay. It's just a quick wipe at the shutter. Look up. Don't move."

It's the attention he wants, the orders he craves, and meanwhile they look down at him. He is the image they make of him, the angle they choose to shoot from and the situation that frames him, and they have made him what they want.

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End file.
